Conchological delight and a return to real life. Remember that? | Lucy Mangan

Monday

The hunt is apparently on in London for the German hairy snail. OK. I have an idea. Why don’t we NOT search for anything called “the German hairy snail”? In fact, I have an even better idea – why don’t we not search for any kind of “hairy snail”. I would go even further and suggest not searching for anything “hairy” at all because that is second only to “mucus” in the list of world’s worst words. But I will settle for not searching for the thing that unassailably evokes the two in grotesque combination.

Except, it turns out – the German hairy snail (hereafter known as the GHS because, honestly, with the best will in the world, I simply CANNOT) is only hairy on its shell and, most crucially, is only the size of a fingernail. And it has apparently been here since Neolithic times – though surviving now only in tiny patches along the Thames, which back in the stone age used to connect to the Rhine. In Germany, do you see? Also, there exists something called the Conchological Society of Great Britain and Ireland, which is supporting the survey, and I didn’t know the word “conchological” before. All these deeply pleasing new pieces of information change everything and I am now heading for the mudbanks of the Thames with a will. The more you know, the less you fear! There’s almost a lesson in that somewhere. Truly, even the hairiest molluscs have much to teach us.

Donald Trump: ‘You know, turkeys voting for Christmas is kinda the secret of my success. Beautiful.’ Photograph: Newscom/Alamy Live News

Tuesday

A young person with whom I, despite the best efforts of both of us, have pretty much daily contact, has introduced me to the phrase “posting zero”. It is the practice of turning away from social media – usually because you are tired of the meaningless mixture of influencers, AI-generated content and advertisements it has become. This, it seems, is a growing trend. The brief promise it held of creating communities, sharing interests and oh, I don’t know, making life a bit more cheerful and interesting has turned out to be a pretty empty one.

In short, we may be returning to real life. Life as it was lived pre-2000 or so, amongst real people, with real-time conversational exchange, the reading of body language and intonation, the gleaning of detail, the understanding of nuance. Imagine. Imagine. Or, for anyone over 25 – remember? Remember?

Wednesday

A friend of mine has long maintained that the only way to preserve good mental health and happiness is never to look at yourself from behind. We have evolved, she reckons, to cope only with seeing what the waters of a gently rippling pond or, at a stretch, a polished metal goblet or other sturdy drinking vessel can show us. Humans are not meant to see themselves with either piercing clarity nor in, as it were, the round. This is a very good rule.

Or it was until today, when scientists revealed that the state of the human bum is, alas, a useful guide to the future health of the human to which it is attached. Specifically, changes to your glutei maximi can warn of the approach of type 2 diabetes. In men, the muscles get thinner, in women fat infiltrates the muscles making them look larger, because of course it does.

My friend is sticking to her rule, reckoning that the misery caused by constant viewing to check on the state of matters posterior would outweigh any possible advantages. I’m pretty sure that after 20 years of just sitting here typing I don’t have any glutei maximi left, so I cannot advise further. I’m butting out here, you might say.

Thursday

To everything there is an equal and opposite reaction, they say. So I suppose the fact that it is the joyous day of Thanksgiving across the pond that has induced the exact opposite in my life today. Viz to wit: the cat – the good one. Not even the bad one – has what I can only describe as the bloody flux and the vet says it will cost at least £600 to discover why; the wardrobe I have at last assembled from Argos has two sets of lefthand drawers and no righthand drawers. My husband thinks this can be sorted with a five-minute phone call. I know it will take the rest of my life; HMRC has lost all record – all record – of an application for repayment of tax I made in July. “Here is the reference number,” I say. “No,” they say. “I hope Argos does better than this,” I say. “We doubt it,” they reply. And I still haven’t found any tiny hairy snails.

Woman to Rachel Reeves: ‘And so, in a few weeks, this is where you’ll start. Manager? Yes ... it’s possible. We’ll see how you get on.’ Photograph: Carl Court/Getty Images

Friday

But no matter. The weekend is almost upon us and, as the final one in November, we can now officially look forward to the festive season. Or, depending on how the budget has worked out for you, cancel it entirely.

I enjoy these early days. I like to grab a cup of warm cider and settle down with as many gift guides as I can and enjoy the rage they fuel among people who have misunderstood what many might feel was the fairly simple concept of gift guides entirely. I am particularly fond of people who look at a list headed, say, “Stocking stuffers for under £50” and respond by commenting on how £50 is a ridiculous amount of money to be spending on a stocking stuffer. They are closely followed in my pantheon of greats by those who see something like “25 affordable luxuries for loved ones” and can only type “Affordable BY WHOM?!?!” before falling to the ground in a paroxysm of ill-founded self-righteousness. On and on it goes. I love it. Never change, frothers. You are the gift that keeps on giving.